Then it passed. The morning continued. Uninterrupted. Unaware.
Because what had changed in Silver Ridge had not reached the surface yet. It had not been named. Not been seen.
But it was there. Behind a closed door. In a room not supposed to be occupied. In a body that no longer followed the balance it once belonged to.
And slowly—quietly—it was beginning to spread.
-----
The hospital did not sleep. Even when corridors dimmed and noise lowered to a hush, something remained awake—machines breathing in steady intervals, footsteps passing in the distance, the sterile scent that never left the air.
Ethan lay unmoving beneath it all. Still. Unresponsive. His chest rose and fell steadily, controlled by nothing but his body's refusal to give in completely. But there was no awareness behind it. No flicker. No return. Only absence. The kind that lingered too long. The kind that unsettled even those beside him.
